Splinters of Soul
by silverAg
Summary: Dissociative Identity Disorder, also known as Multiple Personality Disorder, is thought often to be the result of traumatic experiences. Two years after Reichenbach, Sherlock returns, bloodied and suffering from DID. How could the proud, genius detective possibly continue his beloved work of solving crimes if he dissociates just at the sight of blood?
1. Chapter 1

My first Sherlock fanfic! I am utterly obsessed with Sherlock, and I hope my fellow Sherlocked fans will like this story! :) Spoilers for everything aired. Also, sorry for any inaccuracies in the story. I'll probably make some medically incorrect statements as well. Please review or pm me with any and all comments, suggestions, thoughts, etc. Thanks for reading and again, please let me know what you think!

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John's POV

It began as such a promising day, yet another one in a string of quiet days. Sherlock was playing his violin, composing some sonata or prelude - I never know the difference. Occasionally, I would glance furtively at Sherlock, trying to make a medical evaluation. Sherlock caught my glances - of course he did - and gave me his signature "I can totally see through you and you're an idiot" look. I breathed a sigh of relief, never expecting to be so grateful for a condescending asshole to still be a condescending asshole.

Another day without an...episode. That makes 27 days since the last one. This _condition_ that Sherlock has is so unpredictable. But perhaps it was safe enough to leave Sherlock alone for a few hours and dash home. I haven't seen Mary in so long...if only Sherlock wasn't a selfish, stubborn git and agreed to stay at our house and recuperate. But then again, Mary would probably have kicked him out after three days. Maybe four; Mary was incredibly good natured. My smile faded as I looked at Sherlock again. His wounds and bruises had all healed completely, leaving no trace of the bloody, crying, supposedly dead man who had turned up on my doorstep after two years of silence. For the umpteenth time, I wondered what exactly happened to that man, that man of all people, to break down. I knew better than to ask; I couldn't bear to see my friend, the aloof, superior detective, so utterly broken again. Perhaps there will be a time for it later. For now, I was content letting the past be.

Really, I should have known better than to think that peaceful days could last around Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had put his violin down and was in the process of explaining how he had deduced that I had wanted to see Mary from my slippers. ("The weather is warm; You're wearing socks inside your slippers; you wanted to wear shoes; you wanted to leave the flat; the only person important enough for you to leave me is your wife; Blahblahblah.") Trust the "genius" detective to have to deduce that obvious fact instead of realizing that having not seen my wife for weeks, of course I wanted to see her. And his satisfied smirk; god, I haven't seen that one in a while. I had no idea how much I missed it. I rolled my eyes and reached for a pile of papers next to me. Sherlock looked shocked. "Well! John, did you just roll your eyes at me?"

"Astute observation, my dear Hol- OW!" Why do paper cuts have to hurt so much? "Bloody papers." I chuckled at my own joke. "Sherlock, can you grab me a bandaid? I cut my finger on the...on the...papers. Sherlock? Sherlock, are you ok?" Sherlock was staring at my bleeding finger, a look of panic in his eyes. It was a deep cut; already, my blood was dripping on the carpet.

"Bloody hell" I quickly hid my hand behind my back. Sherlock tore his eyes away, his breathing erratic. "I just cut myself. It's ok. Sherlock? Sherlock! Can you hear me? Sherlock!" Sherlock curled up in his armchair, arms over his head protectively, still as a statue. I bent over my prostrate friend and tapped his shoulder lightly, cautiously. At least he wasn't screaming, this time. I swallowed the urge to push or punch Sherlock and yell at him to snap out of it. This wasn't Sherlock's bloody fault. This was-

Sherlock's head snapped up, steel gray eyes wide open, but staring straight through me. I swallowed, pushing down my own fear. "Easy, easy. It's me, John. You ok?" Sherlock suddenly smiled, disarmingly. It was such a bright, charmingly smile, an expression utterly foreign to Sherlock's face. I felt chills down my spine. Sherlock jumped up, and in a singsong voice, called out "Catch me if you can!" before dashing out the room. I gave myself a split second of shock and sadness before clambering up after Sherlock.

"Not another one, oh please not another one." I could hear Sherlock's feet clambering down the stairs. Cursing his speed, I followed, hoping that the agent Mycroft had stationed outside will catch him before he went too far. But of course, that was too much to ask for. He flew out the doors, a whirlwind of lanky limbs, and was halfway down the street before the agent registered that he was supposed to follow. I was going to have a talk with Mycroft about his agents.

I sped up, barely keeping pace with the agent, and huffed at him to get into his car and follow Sherlock. He nodded and backtracked to his BMW, while I hobbled forward. Through the worry and frustration, some random part of my mind noted that I was severely out of shape. Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to look at me. He waved cheerfully, a ridiculous grin on his face. I tried to match my smile, but in my panicked state, my expression was probably closer to that of a crazed ax murderer. Sherlock didn't seem to notice and was jumping up and down. As I approached however, he giggled- _giggled!_ \- and ran away.

After thirty minutes, I was close to passing out from exhaustion with only adrenaline keeping me from collapsing. Sherlock was not even breathless; he was only waiting for me or the agent, who had ditched his car, to catch up, before speeding to another part of the city. Despairing, I was close to saying the hell with it and washing my hands of him. But I remembered the times after these episodes, when Sherlock regained control of himself, and the pain, fear, and horror he would feel. I pushed on.

Luckily, Sherlock stopped abruptly and did not run from us when we caught up. He was standing in front of a sweets store. I've never known Sherlock to like sweets. He turned to me and pointed, "I want the lollipop!" I swear I've never been an overly emotional man, hell, I'm a soldier who has seen more than his share of death, but I felt like I was going to break down right there. I closed my eyes, briefly. I'm not going to cry in the middle of the streets. I'm not going to cry in front of Sherlock. I took a deep breath in. "Yes, Sherlock, I'll buy you the lollipop."

Sherlock's grey eyes grew wide and looked at me confusedly. "Who's Sherlock?"

My breath stopped. Please, oh god please, let my suspicions be wrong. "What's your name?"

Sherlock smiled sweetly. "I'm Loki!"

I'll readily admit that I'm not a man of eloquence. I'm also no Sherlock, who can probably talk in a hundred languages, give or take. But I am quite proficient in my knowledge of curses, and I know them in quite a few languages too. I proceeded to say them all in my head.

We moved to a little cafe close to the sweets shop. I would have gone back to Baker Street, but I was too damn tired, and the agent had left his car behind. Sherlock sat in front of me, smiling as he licked his lollipop. No, not Sherlock. Loki.

The agent looked up, presumably having texted Mycroft, and turned to me, uncharacteristic worry etched on his face. "Dr. Watson, this is new. Before, he was only angry or crying. Should we give him a sedative?" I sighed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that I should be panicking, but I was unusually calm. I was about to find out the reason for all these episodes, and god, I hoped I was wrong.

"Loki, can I ask you a few questions?"

Sherlock-no, Loki- looked at me and nodded his head. I attempted a smile, "Ok Loki, do you know who I am?" Loki took his lollipop out of his mouth and looked at me quizzically. "You're John Watson. Oh, sorry, Doctor John Watson. Formerly an army doctor. Injured in the shoulder. Married. You haven't seen your wife in a while though. Why are you so surprised? It's so obvious; I don't even need to deduce!" He smiled that sweet, innocent smile again.

The agent looked shocked. "Dr. Watson…" I shook my head. "Loki, how old are you?"

Loki grinned at me. "All of six!"

The agent stood up and virtually dragged me out of the cafe, earning strange looks from the other customers. "Dr. Watson, what the hell is going on?"

I closed my eyes. "He has dissociative identity disorder."

"What?"

"DID. Also known as multiple personality disorder. Usually caused by trauma of some kind. It's an illness that will cause a patient to split into many different personalities. These personalities then can take over and control the patient completely. The patient's main personality won't even be aware, usually." I felt drained, physically and emotionally. This can't be happening, not to Sherlock Holmes.

The agent cleared his throat. "So Mr. Holmes has this...this DID. Can it be cured?"

He read the answer in my eyes. "There is treatment...but no cure."

He nodded, and picked up his phone.

I walked back into the cafe and sat opposite of Loki. "Loki, can I take you back to my flat?" I hurried on, knowing how that must sound. "You'll be safe, I promise. You know I'm a doctor, and doctors don't hurt their patients." Loki frowned. "That's not always true. And Mummy said to be back half an hour before dinner at the latest." His expression suddenly turned petulant. "Are you my new doctor? I don't need a doctor! I won't have one, I won't! Where's My?" His voice rose, and the other customers stared. Thankfully, the agent walked in, and Loki turned his attention to him, staring at him as if deducing his deepest secrets.

"Mr. Holmes is nearby. He will be here in eight minutes." I felt a spark of surprise. But of course, I already knew just how much the elder Mr. Holmes cared for his brother. His brother. I turned back to Loki, who was still staring at the agent. "Loki, can I ask you a few more questions at least?" There was a long moment of silence. "Tell me, Dr. Watson," Loki said suddenly. "How many doctors are accompanied by secret agents? At least, I think this one is trying to be a secret agent. He's not very good at his job." Loki stood up. "I've had enough of this game. Thank you for playing with me. Good day, doctor." He walked out the door, throwing his lollipop in the trash can.

"Wait! Wait." I caught up to him and grabbed his arm. Loki shook me off, preparing, evidently, to flee. I caught his arm again. "Please, listen to me. Loki-" He kicked me in the groin, luckily not hard. He said he's just six, where the hell does a six year old learn to do that? The agent stepped up and took him by the arm. "Mr. Holmes, I mean Loki, please…" Loki began to struggle and cry. Passerby slowed down, and people in the cafe started to stare. Oh god, Sherlock is going to die of embarrassment and kill me if this leaks out. In no particular order. I stood up, wheezing. Thankfully, Mycroft took the chance to make his grand entrance. His assistant, Anthea, walked out, not texting for once, and swept Loki into the car, with surprising strength. Another door was opened for me. The agent nodded to Mycroft and left.

As soon as I got in, the car drove off. Mycroft flatly said, "See that the CCTV is deleted. Make sure this doesn't get out." Anthea nods and resumes texting. Loki, on the other hand, is very quiet, and appears to be sleeping. "Sedative." Mycroft nodded to me.

"So, Dr. Watson, I understand my brother has a disorder." I thought I could detect a slight tremor in his voice. "I have been informed of the details of this disorder; however, I value your opinion highly. Can my brother be treated of this disorder?" Surely, he had already sought the opinions of the highest medical authorities. I, myself, am no expert on DID. But then again, they didn't know Sherlock like I did. They didn't know his incredible mind powers and willpower. _Can his mind powers save him when his mind had already broken into pieces?_ I shook the thought away.

"Mr. Holmes, if anyone can unite their personalities and be treated of this disorder, I believe that it is Sherlock. He is one smart and stubborn bastard, and he won't give up, not now, not ever."

Mycroft nodded and glanced at his brother. I sensed that that was exactly what he wanted and needed to hear. Mycroft cleared his throat. "So all of the... _episodes_...were actually…"

"Manifestations of different personalities, yes."

"When will he turn back to...himself?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I'm hoping when he wakes up. I do wish I was able to ask Loki some questions."

Mycroft slowly turned his head towards me, eyes wide. "What did you call him?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Loki. His current personality is a six year old kid who calls himself Loki."

Mycroft looked as if he was in a state of shock.

"Mr. Holmes…?"

"Loki…" He cleared his throat again. "Loki was my nickname for Sherlock when he was little."

…..

An hour later, at Baker Street, Sherlock woke up, disoriented and dazed. He stumbled a bit, then stood up. I looked at him, unsure of how to react, unsure even of who he was.

"John…" He looked at me, fear prominent in his eyes. "John, what happened? You were bleeding and then…" He grabbed his head. "I...can't remember…" It was half statement, half question, full of utter disbelief. Sherlock was always so proud of his memory.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock was back. "Here, have a cup of tea." I handed him his cup. With one smooth movement, he slapped it out of my hands and smashed it to the floor. "I don't want bloody tea, John. I want to know what happened. I thought I was done with those episodes! I don't want to spend the rest of my life blacking out!" Then Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, started to cry, silently, tears running down his face.

God, why is my face wet too?

"John, what's wrong with me?" His voice was so small. I wiped my face surreptitiously and swallowed.

"Ahem. You silly git. There's nothing wrong with you. You're just overtired, is all. Now off to bed." I wasn't sure why I wasn't telling him the truth. Did I think he couldn't handle it? Of course...not. Is there anything in this world that Sherlock Holmes couldn't handle? Maybe I couldn't handle telling him, not yet. Tomorrow. Maybe. Not tonight. We're both too tired tonight.

I pushed him up and towards his bedroom. I think he sensed that I wasn't telling him everything, but for once he didn't argue. I almost wished he did; that would have been the Sherlock Holmes I know.

I heard his bedroom door close, and I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Over the sound of the rushing water, I could hear Mycroft's parting words. "I'll leave my brother under your care, Doctor." Oh yes. I'll cure Sherlock Holmes if it's the last thing that I do.


	2. Chapter 2

As always, reviews are appreciated! soberdog, I'm glad you liked it!

Thanks for reading! :)

* * *

 **Two months earlier**

"Who the hell is ringing the doorbell at 2 in the morning?" I was already in a foul mood because a patient had kept me up till 12. Holding my pillow over my ears, I sunk back into the covers, hoping that whoever it is would stop. Of course it didn't, what was I even thinking? I groaned and turned to Mary. Without even opening her eyes, she whispered, "You're such a wonderful man, John."

Damn, that woman will be the death of me, I swear. I blearily pulled on a nightgown and trudged to the door, pulling it open. A man in a heavy coat was leaning against the doorframe, his hand on the doorbell. "What the he-..." I froze. I know that ruffled, curly brown hair anywhere. "Sherlock..?"

No way, I was dreaming, hallucinating. Sherlock was dead. I checked his pulse, saw his body myself. I rubbed my eyes. Still there. Gave myself a pinch. Still there. My astonishment suddenly transformed into a surge of intense blind anger.

"What the hell are you doing Sherlock? Two years. Two goddamn years, and you turn up at my door? You…" I grasped him by his coat collar, and yanked him towards me. There was no way he was going to be let off the hook. Not today. I let fury wash over me. This bastard...I was lost for words. Screw it, I can express this physically too. I drew my fist back and punched him, hard. He didn't duck. Hm, at least he knows he deserved it.

I didn't expect him to fall and hit the pavement with such a sickening sound.

"Sherlock? God, sorry. Wait, I'm not sorry, but are you ok? I didn't mean to...Sherlock!" In the darkness of the day, I hadn't looked at him carefully. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. Dear lord, his face was covered with bruises and cuts, some already half-healed, others looking somewhat new. His nose was bleeding...but I admit that was probably because of my punch. I looked down, and my stomach turned. His coat was covered with blood stains, not all of them dried.

Please, no…

Mary had come to the doorstep, probably worried why I hadn't gone back to bed yet. Before she could say anything, I yelled at her to call the ambulance. My mind was in overdrive. I quickly peeled his coat away. I was careful, but I got a small groan in response. He was conscious. He must be in so much pain now.

"Sherlock? Stay with me." He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of slacks under the coat. At least I think it was white, but it had turned brown and red with all the blood. The shirt wasn't torn and had no holes, so he just got it recently. The buttons were buttoned haphazardly; he had been in a hurry. No, even Sherlock in a hurry was meticulous. Sherlock must have been badly injured. His pants were ripped and dirty. I could see the deep slashes on his bare skin through the rips. Thankfully, they weren't inflamed.

I handed my phone to Mary. She quietly took it and held the light steadily. "Sherlock? Talk to me. What-" I sucked in my breath. As I opened the buttons of his shirt, I could see just how bad his wounds were.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! You have to stay awake! Please, do this for me...Mary, check if he's awake." Blood was flowing profusely from a series of gashes on his body. There were patches of angry burn marks. Bruises decorated his body, but I ignored them. Broken right arm, broken collarbone...broken ribs. What had he gotten himself into? I started first aid, tearing strips from my nightgown for makeshift bandages. How did he even manage to get to my house?

"He's out John." You're not dying on me Sherlock. I still have a bone to pick with you. "Slap him."

"What?"

"Slap him Mary. He needs to be awake."

She slapped his face repeatedly, lightly. "Slap him harder, Mary!" She was going to, but Sherlock caught her hand with his own feeble one. "John," his voice cracked. "Did you say to slap me harder?" His voice was so weak, but I was ridiculously overjoyed to hear the sarcastic tone ever present in his speech.

"Sherlock, you bloody bastard. What the hell happened?" I regret those words so much.

His eyes widened and filled with panic. His lips moved soundlessly. He frantically tried to turn his head around, even though Mary was holding it in place. He struggled to get up, crying out at the pain. "Sherlock? Calm down, it's ok. You're with me, John." He started screaming and flailing. He stared with frightened eyes at Mary and tried to pull away. "She's my fiancée, Sherlock; she's with me." _Where was the ambulance?_

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know, I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" He was practically wailing.

Then he was silent. I tapped him on the shoulder. "Sher-" He shuddered and cowered, whimpering. Mary stared at him, then me. I could hear the ambulance in the distance. I crouched further down. "Sherlock it's ok. You're safe." I stopped, shocked. His face was covered in tears. Sherlock never cried. Not from pain, not from anything. Mary was crying too. "Oh Sherlock."

Sherlock kept crying and whimpering as the ambulance took him to the hospital. Mary and I rode with him, shivering absentmindedly, still in our nightgowns. I phoned Lestrade first and told him to meet us at the hospital. I didn't mention Sherlock. I hesitated, debating whether or not to call another person. I didn't need to, Mycroft called me minutes later. It was a blur, so I can't recall what I said. I just recall feeling choked up. By the end of the ride, Sherlock was hyperventilating and had to be sedated. He was taken in for surgery. He was so still, his face still wet. Mary and I sat numbly outside.

We were silent for a long time. I think Mary patted my shoulder periodically.

"I punched him." I choked out, my voice cracking with guilt.

"What?"

"I punched that bloody bastard. I was so mad...I couldn't see his…"

"Shh. He'll be fine. He'll pull through. You've told me how persistent and stubborn he was, remember?"

"I actually punched him. He came to my house in the middle of the night, of course he needed help. How did I not see that? He was hurt. I _punched_ him. And why the hell was he acting like that?"

"Shh, baby, it'll be alright. He was just in shock. Shh. It'll end soon, and Sherlock will be fine."

Mary couldn't have been more wrong.

Sherlock woke up days later with no memory of what had happened. He seemed cheerful enough, as cheerful as Sherlock could ever be, given his present state. He told me he couldn't remember what had happened for the past six months, only the part where he was trying to reach my house. And he couldn't remember the part after I told Mary to slap him either. His eyes closed as he strained to remember, but I hastily changed the subject.

"Ok erm so you're alive. Great. Couldn't have told me? You know, saved me from mourning?" I wasn't angry, not anymore. I couldn't bring myself to feel angry.

Sherlock shrugged. "I had actually important matters to attend to." If he wasn't already half-dead, I would have killed him right there. I breathed slowly.

Lestrade walked in and saved me from being a murderer.

"Hey! Look who's alive! God, Anderson will be insufferable now."

Sherlock's colorless lips twitched. "He must be cursing and prepared to kill me himself." Wow, that sounded a lot like me.

Lestrade grinned. "Nah, he couldn't be happier. He was always claiming that you were still alive with his crackpot theories. Guilt, I suppose. He won't stop talking about how he was right all along now." His smile faded. "But Jesus, Sherlock. What in the world happened to you?" I should have warned him not to ask that.

Luckily, Sherlock must have not heard him, because he was scowling at a figure by the doorway of his room. I could guess who it was without turning around.

"Well, well, brother mine, you are in fine shape." Mycroft's words were accented by the sound of his cane on the tiled floor. "Was it not enough to scare Mummy and me by turning up two years ago when you were supposed to be 'dead?' "

Sherlock snorted. "I think you were more displeased that I wasn't actually dead."

Mycroft sniffed. "Oh you injure me, Sherlock. You know, I was the one who got you this nice private room. And no, Sherlock, before you ask, you are staying in this nice room. You're not going back to Baker Street."

Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but he was cut off by a flurry of movement. A nurse was wheeling a patient in. The patient had clearly suffered from some kind of crash and was bleeding heavily through the bandages. The nurse seemed to have realized that she had gotten the wrong room, and wheeled the patient back out, apologizing. We turned back to Sherlock, who had gone still. "Sherlock?" I cautiously asked.

He grabbed his head with his good arm. "Sherlock..." I tapped his shoulder, fearful of a repeat of the night I found him.

"Get the f*** AWAY FROM ME!" He thrust me away. Everyone was shocked. Sherlock had never been one for coarse language.

He struggled to get out of bed and tumbled up instead. Lestrade moved to help him. Sherlock scrambled up. He ripped the IV and all other tubes out of his body. If the situation wasn't so serious, I would have admired at how he was able to move at all.

Sherlock got in a defensive position. "If you take one step further," his voice was low and rough. "I swear I'll kill all of you." He smiled; it was a dangerous smile. His eyes glittered. "Come on, step forward. Brother mine, won't you try?" His smile widened. The room felt cold. "Oh you coward, you never had any guts did you? You're just a big, fat bully." He chuckled. Then turned angry again. "Damn it, let me go! You've never cared for me, why pretend now? I want to leave. I don't want to see your faces. F*** you!" He the lamp beside the hospital bed, and before we could move, smashed it against the ground. _How did he have that strength?_

Lestrade jumped. "Jesus man, calm down. We're not gonna hurt you." He moved forward. Mycroft held out his cane to stop him. "Let him be. He'll wear himself out soon enough." He turned and swept from the room. Cold-hearted bastard.

He was still right. Sherlock was swaying, and moments later, his eyes rolled back. Lestrade and I jumped forward to catch him. We ended up in a tangle, while Mary helped Sherlock into bed. Damn, that woman is strong.

Lestrade was looking at me, expecting an explanation no doubt. I faked a smile. "He's just under a lot of stress. Shock, definitely. He'll be alright soon." Even then, I think I knew that that was a lie. Sherlock had always reacted well under stress.

Lestrade nodded. He believed me. "Let me know if you need me or anything." I nodded. He glanced at Sherlock. "Poor man. He must have gone through a lot."

If nothing else, that was true.

Again, Sherlock woke up with no memories of his shouting. He frowned, trying to recall when his brother and Lestrade left. I told him he fell asleep. He didn't believe me, but he couldn't come up with an answer either.

That wasn't the last time. In the next few months, Sherlock had many episodes where he acted unlike himself and couldn't remember anything afterwards. Triggers were anything from blood to asking about the past to even random, unidentifiable things. Every time after blacking out, Sherlock would panic. I would comfort him, telling him that nothing happened, that it was just a side effect of stress and shock. I think I was pretty successful in keeping the doubt out of my voice.

After he was discharged from the hospital, I told Mary that I would have to stay with him at Baker Street to look after him. She readily agreed, the sweet, strong woman that she was.

When Sherlock stepped into Baker Street 221B, heavily supported by Lestrade and me, Mrs. Hudson flew at him and hugged him. He winced, but smiled genuinely. "Oh Sherlock! How I've missed you!"

"I've missed you too. But really, you've missed me putting dismembered body parts in your fridge and decorating your walls with bullet holes? My, Mrs. Hudson, you have changed."

He sounded like Sherlock of the old again. I could almost believe that nothing had changed.


End file.
